


Who He Is

by The_White_Rabbit42



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Did I Mention Angst?, Established Relationship, F/M, Kidnapping, Mentions of Sex Toys, Mind Control, NSFW, No explicit smut, Restraints, mentions of BDSM, mentions of knifeplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 16:50:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15028934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_White_Rabbit42/pseuds/The_White_Rabbit42
Summary: You think you know who Arthur Ketch is… but is he really the man you believe him to be?





	Who He Is

You know who he is.  

 

His name is Ketch.  He is good at what he does.  He is an excellent soldier, an even better hunter, and he follows orders to a T.  He is many things, but not the monster they claim him to be. 

 

It started as a series of grappling matches, the adrenaline and tension blending into something far more erotic, until one night he had you pinned against the wall with your pants around your ankles, and he was slamming into you so hard you were convinced the drywall was going to give at any moment.

 

When it began to be a regular thing, he became comfortable enough to bring out the toys.  Oh, how Ketch loves  _ those _ .  His favorite is the riding crop and making it dance across your breasts and the back of your thighs.  He prefers to use his bare hands on your ass. There’s nothing like the sound of skin striking flesh that gets him going faster.  For you, it's the balance of pleasure and pain, the sharp sting followed by the gentle palm as he rubs over the sensitive area. It’s also the inevitability of his fingers wandering elsewhere, teasing their way along your folds to check how wet he’s made you.  

 

He’s also fond of ropes.  Spreaders. Gags. Blindfolds.  You’ve been tied with so many different things in so many positions you’ve lost count.  Your favorite so far has been when he’s had you face down, your feet attached to a bar, leaving your legs wide open and you at his mercy.  He’d brought you to the edge of the bed, pulling you up on your knees before binding your hands to them, leaving your ass in the air with the rest of you down on the mattress.  In this position, the gag had been a necessity. Your screams of pleasure would have likely prompted a few calls to the authorities as every thrust hit hard and deep, pushing you to your limits.

 

What he’s into isn’t always your cup of tea.  You’re not a fan of the knives, but you’ll humor him on occasion.  He’s never hurt you with them, and you trust he never would. The occasional knick here and there when he gets a little  _ too  _ enthusiastic as he’s cutting through your clothing is the closest he’s ever come to truly hurting you.  

 

What really tells you who he is, is the way those strong hands grow gentle once your both spent.  He handles you with a tenderness that many people never develop, the depths of which are greater than someone like him should be capable of reaching.  His whole life has been about learning to kill. To obey. To eradicate. Yet, there’s no denying it. Hiding beneath that shell of the indifferent, calculated agent, the man is still in there. 

 

_ He _ sneaks out beneath the reticence of night where he whispers sweet nothings in a language all his own.  In the needy nuzzle of your neck. In the way he holds you, like you might slip through his grasp at any moment. In the way he tends your body to ensure there is no lingering irritation after his activities or an assignment.    

 

You should’ve known something was off when he woke you up a few weeks ago to make love to you for the first time.  You became too lost with how his mouth and hands worshipped every inch of your body, using your responses to guide his actions.  Having him drop all pretenses of control was a phenomenon you had never experienced before. 

 

By the time he put his head between your thighs you couldn’t think at all.  Your system was on overload, emotion and sensation melding together in a way that had been absent this entire time.  After, you were too busy relishing in the fact that a declaration had been made. He isn’t someone that does  _ I love yous  _ or talks about  _ feelings _ .  He is a man of action, and that is how you know you can trust what information you have on him.  Words are easy to twist and embellish, but behavior says so much more about a person. 

 

You still didn’t even know what to do with the fact that this part of him was out in the light of day.  Hope still sparks bright, catching embers of much fonder, deeper emotions you have tried so hard to deny.  Only you can’t, because  _ this  _ was the man beneath it all. This wasn’t Ketch, but Arthur; the one whose guilt shadows his gaze whenever you’re hurt on a hunt and whose eyes brighten and lips curl at one corner in the barest hint of a smile the moment you both return from separate assignments.  This is the man that spends more mornings procrastinating in bed than maintaining his former, rigid schedule. 

 

If all that wasn’t enough, his words should have clued you in that not all was well in the world.  

 

_ “I need you to do something for me,” he murmurs.  As usual, his head is tucked against your neck, his body folded around yours like a second skin.  You’ve all but melted against him and the way he holds you, caged tight against him, makes you feel more wanted than trapped.  He has never kept you against your will, would never, and that is the very reason he could keep you bound to his bed or locked within his limbs for as long as he wishes. _

 

_ “Anything,” you agree.   _

 

_ “I know many people would not describe me as a good man,” he begins, and his normally eloquent self fumbles to continue, an unusual silence hovering between you.   _

 

_ “Many people are idiots,” you snort.  He’s right though. Men like him earn certain reputations.  He does not speak of his past and you don’t ask, because he’s been good to  _ **_you_ ** _ and you’ve witnessed him do a lot of good for others.  _

 

_ “There may come a day where you will hate me.  Promise me it won’t be for my failures.”  _

 

You could never hate him, because you  _ know  _ who he is.  

 

Even now, as you stare down the barrel of his gun with a good idea of what’s about to come, you can’t find it in you to despise him.  

 

“You don’t have to do this,” you remind him.  For a man who asserts such stringent control over everything he can, he often forgets how much he really has.  Your power, however, has significant limits right now, and when he racks his pistol, putting a bullet in the chamber, you find yourself with no choice but to slowly back down the hall.   Your pulse beats with reckless abandon, every fiber in your being telling you to run, except the very thing hammering away in your ears.

“What will happen if I don’t will be far, far worse.”  His words are as hard and heavy as stone, but it’s his eyes that give him away.  Those beautiful, crystalline orbs plead with you to understand, to not make this any harder for him, to  _ forgive _ .  

 

You want to reach for him, to soothe the storm upsetting the normally eerily calm waters of his gaze.  You want to tell him it will be alright and that you’ll figure this out. 

 

All you can do is swallow and keep moving.

 

“I would follow you anywhere.”  Your breath hitches, and you find yourself fighting back tears as your voice all but vanishes.  “But not here. Not to this.”

 

“I know.”  His gentleness has cracks forming in stoic steel; he is splintering apart just as surely as you are.  “Which is why I could never ask you to do this.” 

 

He motions for you to keep moving.  Your time is running out. You’re only a few feet from a door you know you’ll never walk out of if you let him take you through it.  

 

“ _ Please _ .  Please don’t.”  You take a step to appease him, but pause again, trying to stall.  “This isn’t you, Arthur. This isn’t what you want.”

 

His gun lowers slightly, his lips pulled so thin they tremble for the briefest moment before he suddenly snaps, “This isn’t about  _ me _ !”  He clenches his jaw, hard, his head shaking as he looks up at the ceiling as if you _ just don’t get it _ .  

 

The problem is, you  _ do _ , and that’s why you can’t let him do this.  

 

“I know you,” you insist, determined to get him to listen.  “And this - this  _ isn’t _ you.  This isn’t the man I--”

 

His eyes drop back to you, wide with panic.  In an instant, he’s on you, shoving you back the remaining distance before throwing you against the door.  The metal rattles on its hinges, and the impact steals your breath and words before he does the same with a kiss.  The sentiment you’d tried to impart echoes from his lips, which are as domineering as they are desperate, and by the time they finish making sure you’ve heard them loud and clear, both your chests are rising and falling rapidly.  

 

He leans his forehead against yours and takes a moment.  For what you’re not certain, but you seize it, not wanting to let him retreat.  The moment you touch him, however, he jerks back, as if you’d slapped him instead of tried to lay your hand against his cheek. 

 

He grabs the lever to your left, wrenching it up before he grips your arm.  In one deft movement, he hauls you away from the door and opens it, shoving you inside.  You stumble in, too shocked by the sudden change to resist. The door slams behind you, the sound reverberating ominously through the nearly empty space.

 

You know what this room is for.  You’d asked about it once, in passing, and he’d not only answered you, but had snuck you in to show it to you first hand despite your lack of clearance.  The risk of being caught and the heady thrill of disobeying an order for what was likely the first time in his life, led to the most impassioned chair sex of your life.  

 

You can only stare at it now, dry-mouthed.  The piece of equipment directly across the room no longer hums with fond recollection, but tingles with your mounting dread, and once again you feel your emotions spiraling out of control.  The truth is, the fate he would choose is more terrifying than the thought of him putting a bullet in your brain, and you’re tempted to test just how dedicated he is to his orders.

 

“Sit,” he commands, pressing the gun into your back.  It’s a useless gesture. You know he’ll never use it, but the way he follows your hesitation with, “Don’t make me force you,” suggests other tactics are still on the table.  

 

Deep down, you know this is it.  There is no point in fighting him.  You could never kill him, and, more importantly, he will never let you go.   

 

Defeated, you do as you’re told, your control completely crumbling.  He finally puts his gun away, but the more you unravel, the more he avoids looking at you, his hands securing your arms and legs to the seat as if he’s done this hundreds of times.  You begin to struggle, though it’s more against the knowledge that _ this is really happening _ than your restraints, your betrayal flaring as hot as the tears flowing freely down your face.  

 

You lower your gaze, trying to hide your disappointment and fear of whomever it is that stands before you.  This is the first time he’s done anything without your consent, the first time he’s ever truly manipulated you.  You had escaped. He had an opportunity to run with you, to leave this all behind. You could have figured it out.   _ Together.   _ Instead, he fed you lies that led you back to this horrid place built on secrets, deception, and duplicity. 

 

You glance up, and the simmering anger in your stare tells him you’d be giving him the middle finger if your hands weren’t strapped to the chair right now.  As it is, all you can do is clench them around the end of the armrests. 

 

Looking at him becomes worst mistake you’ve made today.

 

Him looking back is clearly his.

 

He places his hands over yours and you grab hold of the metal even harder, your knuckles taut and white.  “You have every right to hate me.” 

 

“I wish I could hate you,” you hiss, the hurt coating your voice until it’s thick and unrecognizable.  He drops his head, and in the brief moment before his eyes slide shut, you imagine you catch them dim with shame.  He swallows once, twice, and whatever else he has to say must be stuck in his throat because he doesn’t move or speak again for several moments.

 

“It won’t be this way forever,” he promises, squeezing your hands reassuringly.  “I will make this right, I swear.”

 

“Make it right,  _ now _ ,” you plead.  “ _ I love you. _ ”   _ You idiot.   _

 

This isn’t how you wanted the first time you said these words to be, but now that it’s out here, all you want to do is scream at him.  You know he loves you too. He  _ has  _ to.  You couldn’t be  _ that _ wrong about him.  

 

His features pull tight and he winces, as if hearing the phrase is physically painful for him.  

 

“There is no other way,” he insists, and you’re not sure who he’s trying to convince more: himself or you.  “And when you return, you can hate me for being a coward. You can hate me for what I’ve done to you and the others, and Mick...”

 

Oh God,  _ Mick _ .  You had wondered, but you hadn’t dared to think…

 

Your throat is so tight you can barely breathe and a profound sadness washes over you.  For Mick. For  _ him _ .  For what you’re about to become.

 

“It won’t be the same.”  You’re not certain how you can even speak, but the words somehow make their way out. “I won’t be  _ me _ .”

 

He raises his face, and for the first time ever, his entire mask is gone.  Beneath it isn’t the man you know, but one that is so broken and desperate that he is unrecognizable.  There is hatred and guilt woven so tightly with adoration that the dissonance alone between those sentiments would have brought lesser men to their knees.

 

It’s not until you see him for who he really is that you realize he’s as much a hostage as you are.

 

Your slump forward and he shifts closer in response, pressing his forehead to yours.  You both take a shuddering breath as his restraint shatters, the feelings he’s kept contained finally breaking free.  “I know.” His voice is a strangled, filled with just as much fear as you feel. His hand flutters along your temple, brushing back the hair clinging to your face before he continues to stroke it.  “I don’t expect things to ever be the same. I don’t even expect you to forgive me. All I ask is you remember your promise.” 

 

“What will they do to me if you let me go?”  The question sears through your mind. You have a feeling you already know, but you still need to ask it.  You  _ need  _ to hear it.  You need to know it’s not him, but them.

 

“Things even I cannot stomach.  Things I cannot think about. Things I will  _ never _ let happen.”  A primal snarl rises within the last statement, one that would have given you pause had he been talking about anything else.  

 

His admission floors you, and you realize you _ were  _ wrong _.   _ You  _ don’t  _ know him.  You had no idea of the depth of his affection, or how far he’s willing to go to prevent the people he loves from being hurt.  

 

There are other ways, but you know he’ll never hear you.  All he’ll see is all the different ways disobeying them can go wrong.  He’ll never see past how badly the odds would be stacked against you, how the danger would never fade -- how neither of you would ever be free.  

 

“Who’s going to do it?” you question.  Part of you would like to spare him the responsibility, but another part would feel better if it was him.  Despite everything, he’s still the only one you trust. 

 

“My orders are to do this myself.”  You can read between the lines;  _ they know _ and they want to ensure where his loyalty lays.

 

You finally find your hatred, and it’s not for him. 

 

Your tears become dry as you resign yourself to your fate.  You squeeze the last few out before squaring your shoulders.  It’s over. They have won this round, and all you can do is hope that you’ll have the chance to fight another one, like he’s promised.  “I’m ready.” 

 

He nods, rising to move behind the equipment.  You can hear him flipping a series of switches just before the machinery hums to life.  He picks up the white cap covered in nodes and electrical wires and places it over your head, the weight of which has dread shooting straight down your spine.  

 

He takes his place at the controls again and you know you only have a few more moments with him.  Everything inside you shrieks in a final, visceral flare: to fight, to beg, to do something, as it claws its way through you.  Yet, there’s nothing left to be done. 

 

“This will hurt, but you won’t remember it,” he warns, his tone stiff and apologetic.  You can only nod. You don’t really want to know these things, and he probably doesn’t want to be telling them to you.  Like you, he’s struggling, but whether it’s with his instincts or the fact that he will have to let you go, you can’t be sure.  

 

“Arthur?”  His eyes are red and raw with unshed tears, and you watch him steel himself as you turn your head to look at him one last time.  “I promise not to hate you… If you can promise to still be here when I return.”

 

You know the man you love does not exist, at least not without you.  He is born in moments only you provide, but gone the instant they tug at his leash.  As soon as you vanish, so will he, and that is what scares you the most.

 

“I will be here,” he vows, his certainty bordering on overconfidence.  “And you  _ will _ hate me, but I beg you, please don’t fault me for wanting you to live.”  

 

Before you can even process what he’s said he slams a switch forward the size of his hand and your entire world goes white.  You have no idea it’s to spare you from having to see him fall apart completely, his features fragmenting as his pain finally pushes its way out the corner of his eyes.

 

***

 

When you awaken, the world is like a blank canvas; sterile, refreshed in a way that feels like the universe has been rebuilt.  There’s a numbness seeping through your system, pushing the contents of your heart out in one final, soul-wrenching cry. When it all comes back together, the colors are faded, the spectrum now a series of muted shades of grey.  You don’t notice a difference from before, however. It’s like things have always been this way, even if you know they haven’t. 

 

He is there.  Waiting. Alone.  His exterior is collected, but you can smell the fear leaking from his pores.  You find it to be curious considering you are the one at a disadvantage.

 

He eyes you intently before crouching down in front of you.  “Do you hate me?” 

 

You stare at him a moment, processing his words as he begins to undo the straps around your wrists. There is an eerie calm within your system that feels foreign, but somehow still yours, like you grabbed a pair of leather gloves identical to yours but broken in by someone else.  They’re they right size. They still fit, but the feel of them is off --  _ not quite right _ .  “No.  I don’t.”

 

He moves on to the bindings at your ankles.  The muscle in his jaw flexes once. Twice. As soon as your legs are freed he stands back up, offering you his hand.  The look in his eyes is unreadable as you take it and rise, and he keeps hold of you longer than necessary. There is intent, however.  You can sense it on a level that’s almost preternatural, as if you not only know him and his subtleties but all that lies beneath the surface. 

 

Perhaps you always have, but now you can actually see him for what he is: a fortress whose walls are tight and strong, but behind them sits nothing but soft sentiments like doubt and desperation. 

 

“Do you still love me?”  He voice is barely audible, as if what he asks is somehow forbidden.  

 

You take a moment to consider it.  You remember everything. Memories sit, neat and orderly, along the shelf of your mind.  They do not sing with any sensation. They do not ripple with vitality or emotion. You recall the feel of his hands on your body, and even now there’s a response beneath your skin.  It’s Pavlovian at best, your nerve-endings associating pleasure with his presence to the point the sheer sight of him beckons to you. Everything else, however, just… is. 

 

As is the silence you feel in response to his question. 

 

“... Am I supposed to?”  

 

The look on his face tells you everything you need to know about him.


End file.
